


saying nothing, that's enough for me

by HelenhastheHiccups



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Multi, Past Drug Addiction, Team as Family, Vampire Turning, Vampires, they are so fond of each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:53:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28744293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelenhastheHiccups/pseuds/HelenhastheHiccups
Summary: Although forced into a life of solitude, fate had other plans for Bang Chan.It began, as many things do, with Minho.xxxa found family fic focusing on relationship growth, healing, and the fact that Chan has growing numbers of illegal vampires in his house that the Council doesn't need to know about.
Relationships: Bang Chan/Everyone
Comments: 5
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! this has been my pet project for the last few months as I go and rewrite my other stray kids fic to edit out a particular person. 
> 
> heed the tags: the past sexual abuse and drug use are not wholly explicit aside from one uncomfortable scene, if you are wary skip when Chan is on the roof of a building and search for BamBam who makes a brief appearance/cameo. 
> 
> enjoy!

“Easy, easy,” says Chan, gently pushing the younger back onto the bed while running his free hand through Felix’s sweat-soaked hair. He replaces the old towel with a new damp cloth, but even the bitter cold compress does little to cut through the intensity of Felix’s fever. Cautiously, so as to not jostle Felix too much, Chan slips onto the bed, pulling the other into his embrace, the younger all but draped across his body. Felix leans into the older’s embrace, body dead weight as he sighs at Chan’s soft touch. He lacks the strength to even shudder from the chills crawling over his skin. Each breath he takes is labored, choking on what little air he manages to intake. The only sensation he is truly aware of are the cold fingers on his neck, a welcome reprieve from the heat of the fever. The older steadfastly ignores how the younger trembles in his arms, eyes distant and unseeing while his body radiates heat like a furnace. It’s by far the worst fever Chan has dealt with in a while.

Felix refusing to feed doesn’t help matters.

Chan reaches for the chalice he brought in, slowly bringing it up to the other’s lips. Felix presses his lips together, face tightening in a grimace while batting away the offered drink with all the strength of a newborn baby. The younger twists and writhes as much as he can, arching his back in a futile effort to refuse the glass, but Chan is faster. He manages to get the lip of the cup past Felix’s dry lips, tipping it back ever so slightly so the red liquid enters his mouth ever so slightly. 

Faster, perhaps, but not successful.

Felix gags and spits before he even has the time to register the thick substance on his tongue. He trembles more, a leaf in the wind resisting the cold breeze of autumn. He sits upright in bed as he retches and spits, murmuring barely coherent apologies at the mess of the bed. Felix weakly pushes off the heavy blood-covered duvet before shivering and pulling it closer. Chan croons quietly, pulling Felix closer into his embrace. 

“Why aren’t you feeding, Felix? You’re only prolonging the pain by not feeding.” 

There’s no response, not that Chan expected one. Felix continues sagging in Chan’s arms, eyes drooping closed from the exhaustion of his body rejecting another meal. The older sighs, letting his own fangs descend before slicing cleanly into his arm. Felix starts forward at the fresh blood, eyes dilating noticeably as his grip tightens on the blanket. Chan smiles, pushing Felix’s bangs off of his forehead with his dimples on full display as he offers his wrist to Felix. The younger lurches forward before hesitating again, conflict shining in his eyes. The haze of desire is there, a spark in the night that slowly grows to a wildfire as his gaze lingers.

He’s utterly fixated on the offered appendage, and it is the most responsive he has been in weeks. Chan knows, inwardly, that most fledglings and newborns prefer to feed directly from their Sire, but chalice and force-feeding were the only ways Chan had managed to get Felix to feed at all. Not that he managed to keep any of it down, body rejecting the blood each time. 

But Chan expected that when he agreed to take Felix in. Even as Felix grows more hesitant to feed from the constant regurgitation, Chan is steadfast in his determination. He made a promise not to give up on the younger, nor to leave him behind upon their first solemn encounter. If he closes his eyes he can still feel the blood-slicked fingers cupping his face, eyes wide and unblinking. Besides, it’s not the first time he’s dealt with picky young vampires.

Felix pushes away the arm again, but each time seems a little less reluctant, less adverse to feeding. Chan continues offering his arm, biting his lip as his eyes shine with hope. The younger is listless, as weak as he is, his eyes are as predatory as that of a caged tiger. They glint in the low light, tracking Chan’s movements. If Felix had not been so ill, Chan, knowing the threat newborns can pose, might have felt threatened. Chan aggravates the injury so it bleeds a little more, and he knows that Felix is more than aware. Felix’s breathing is labored with pain but also with the soul-deep insatiable hunger of a fledgling vampire. 

Chan swipes a finger through the blood, wetting Felix’s dry lips with it - the younger’s tongue darting out to taste a few drops. The blood-red hue of the younger’s irises only deepens with his first coherent taste of blood. Chan offers his wrist again and this time finally, _finally_ Felix latches on. 

Describing how a fledgling feeds never gets easier, a tugging and pain at the bite but also a deep intimacy as the bond continues growing. With how weak and young Felix is, feeding doesn’t hurt nor does it bring pleasure aside from the relief that the younger might survive the Change after all. Fangs take a few years to grow in properly, not to mention how long the potency of a vampire’s venom can take to develop. 

Chan eases his wrist away from Felix, who tries to latch on harder in protest - but Chan is more than aware that Felix hasn’t managed to keep a meal down. Even if (and he so deeply hopes) that Felix keeps the meal down, he is in no shape to feed so heavily; the volume and richness will only upset his stomach. There is color returning to Felix’s cheeks and his fever has lessened slightly, but only time will tell.

Still it is a good sign that Felix is starting to need to lean more into his developing instincts. It is one of the first positive signs that Chan has seen in the two weeks that Felix has been suffering through the Change. He helps Felix recline back on the bed, peeling off the blood-stained duvet and replacing it with a spare quilt before heading off to do laundry with a spring in his step and smile on his face. 

* * *

If he is getting into specifics, Chan never _technically_ Sired any vampire. This he knows to be true, even if he is the Sire to four, now five, vampires. There are two reasons for this: one, he was not _always_ the one to begin the Change, rarely the one who gave them that initial taste of vampiric blood. Second, the bureaucracy of the small vampiric community, regardless of affiliation with Elder JYP, never worked in his favor. 

The endless hoops to get anything done in the vampire world have always been so taxing. Just to make a proposal Chan would need to write an expose on why he deserves to have his claim heard in the first place. It doesn’t matter that JYP sired him - rules are rules. In his younger centuries, Chan - lonely and hurting - had all but begged his Sire to be part of one of the existing Covens. Other covens even proposed Chan joining them, but the Elder always insisted a greater destiny awaited Chan. 

The covenants only grew more restrictive and, though his venom finally developed fully, Chan didn’t dare ask to sire a fledgling. The Elders mandated that siring fledglings must be regimented to preserve the integrity of their vampire-community after the uprising against Yeonsan-gun. No newborns were to emerge from the soil until the political unrest ended or the vampiric population fell drastically - whatever comes first. Chan had the unlucky position to be Sired in the last wave, when most covens were deemed too full or resource-strained to Sire a fledgling regardless. Or perhaps it was just his own misfortune, that he was destined to be alone for an eternity. Thus waiting to find a family of his own turned into months, into years, into decades, into centuries. And for the first time in his two lives, Bang Chan began to lose hope. 

If he reaches into the farthest recesses of his memory he can recall hands of other vampires caressing his face, hair - hope swelling hot and tight in his chest, heart full enough to push against his chest. Each time the pin in that balloon hurt more, hope pushing a little less against his chest, spirits staying dimmer. Humans provided little comfort - their lives fleeting, insignificant in the span of rampant illness and misery. One of the brief mentors assigned to him by his Sire called them soap bubbles, a mere blip in the infinity of a vampire’s lifespan. Desperation dances to a separate rhythm, but true to form Chan’s human companions always found partners, had children then grandchildren before Chan even realized how much time was passing. Reaching out grew harder and harder. Endless moons waxed and waned in his hanok, his fingers deftly plucking the strings of his gayageum with only the sweet sounding notes as company.

Chan never received permission, nor was approved to join another coven. Drifting as aimlessly as restless spirits, between two worlds and yet nonexistent. Even if he were to begin the Change to another vampire or two, Chan would not be (in the eyes of the law) their Sire. Still, he never intended to break the oath he swore.

It began, as many things do, with Minho. 

The puddles are deep and unforgiving, soaking Chan’s shoes. Every step he takes in the dark squishes uncomfortably as he ambles down the path, huddled under his umbrella with his left arm tucked firmly against his chest. The wind rattles his umbrella every which way, utterly useless from how his hanbok is as damp as the puddle he stepped in. He longs for the puddle-free warmth of his home, but this errand cannot wait any longer. Chan must return the borrowed scrolls to Namjoon’s shop before the coven departs off to Busan for an undetermined amount of time - so he trudges onward. There isn’t much Chan can do when he can’t walk in the daylight - he still gets a nasty, uncomfortable burn within minutes of exposure.

So he presses along down the dirt path, taking the left and sighing at the sight of the Kim coven’s home, fighting to keep his scrolls protected with his sleeves. The splatters of wet earth on his favorite daily hanbok has him regretting leaving his lovely little house today, skeptical if Namjoon will even let him inside with how much mud he would surely track inside. Not to mention the pretty price Namjoon’s coven-mates will make him pay if these scrolls are damaged in the rain - Seokjin and Jimin, at least, will be unforgiving. 

At last - he arrives.

Namjoon opens the door, the warm light of the lamps spilling out into the darkness of the stormy night. The older vampire looks settled, content dressed in dark clothes with a wine glass in his right hand as he greets Chan with a smile. 

“Ah - sorry for my lack of notice, Namjoon-ssi, I heard from Yugyeom that your coven is thinking of leaving and I thought it best to return the scrolls I borrowed. You do know that hangul is banned, correct?”

Namjoon’s dimples deepen as his smile grows wider, turning into the room and beckoning the younger into the foyer, not paying any mind to the water dripping off of Chan’s clothes onto the floor. He feels out of place in the finery and warm lighting - quiet murmurs in the farther reaches of Namjoon’s manor. The offered towel is warm, a gentle caress against his skin even if he knows he’ll be soaked to the bone the minute he steps out into the rain once more.

Namjoon sets his wine glass down, taking the scrolls with his free hand as he responds, “Ah, yes, well I am sure one day our common language will be of use to have printed. Perhaps it will even become commonplace. What the Elders and humans don’t know won’t hurt them, will it Chan-ssi?”

“I suppose not,” responds Chan slowly, his eyebrows scrunching together in a curious expression. Interactions with Namjoon and his coven-mates were always so interesting - never before had he met a clan so willing to bend the rules in their favor. Their personal interests of justice were a fascinating topic to Chan, but he was rarely privy to them outside of full Coven gatherings. Having different Elders can have that impact, he supposes. The storm begins to worsen, the winds howling and Chan takes a step backward with a rueful smile, “I best be off, then, and get home before the worst of the storm sets in.” 

“Do take care, Chan,” replies Namjoon with a polite smile. “And do get home safely. I believe this storm is only the beginning.”

What an odd fellow. Still, Chan nods his thanks with a bright smile, bowing once before turning around and beginning the trek home. Vampire speed would be useful, but he’s rarely in a rush these days - it spares him more time from being in his empty home at least. It’s not like he can get sick from being in the cold when he’s already dead.

He is a little less than a third of the way from his house when he hears the shouts and screams. Even if Chan did not have advanced senses the unmistakable sound of a hand making contact with skin sings through the night. Another slap followed by a muffled scream, horrible gurgling noises. Chan pauses, letting his umbrella fall down to his side as the sounds of the scuffle only grow louder. He’s heading in the direction before the smell of blood - fresh - hits his senses hard. 

As the gruesome scene comes into view, Chan regrets ever having the vision of a creature of the night. Two women lay on the ground, eyes wide and unseeing with limbs stretched and broken at unnatural angles. Positioned as carelessly as a doll dropped by a young child, right down to the frozen smiles painted on their face contrasted with the fear in their eyes. The smile only makes the sight of their bodies all the more horrifying. What remained are mere husks laid out to dry in the sun for centuries, drained of all life and withering away quickly like parchment in water. The air is ripe with the sickly scent of alcohol and venom - but that would have been obvious given the pinholes in the necks of the two deceased women. 

The two vampires have cornered a young man dressed in a different finery than the women, the bit of rouge on his lips and cheeks marred by the rain. He cries out silently, thrashing in the steel grips of the vampires that have him restrained, two arms keeping him pinned back to the chest of the taller of the two. There’s already blood dripping down his neck, staining his hanbok from the carelessly placed bites dotting his neck. A clear gift from the other two vampires - the women, Chan muses, must have been protecting him. The scream heard earlier must have been this young man’s, the gag pushed down past his mouth. 

The man thrashes again, crying out again as the vampire attaches himself to the other’s neck. The young man thrashes, eyelashes fluttering from the rain splattering down against them - perhaps even from the euphoria of the venom kicking in. Chan pauses, acting before thinking. 

“Hey! Stop!” cries Chan, but the vampires pay him little attention, the human’s head snapping up, brow furrowing as he thinks he heard something despite the wind and thunder. 

The human is quiet now, but as another streak of lightning pierces the night illuminating everything in sight - his eyes widen and he cries out once more. It would be an overstatement to classify the guttural cry as a statement, but seeing the figure of Chan in the distance was enough for a moment of sublime hope. The vampire restraining the human clamps a hand over the human’s mouth momentarily muffling his cries. The human bites down hard, trying to get the creature to let go, but to no avail. The vampire snarls in response, refusing to let go. 

The gash in the human’s neck looks as dastardly as a wendigo attack, as if half of the young man’s neck and collarbone have been cleaved away. No - torn. Like a tree’s roots upended in the forest, gaping and unnatural to see the mass of connective tissue and muscle. The other vampires seem to have lost all higher cognition, perhaps rogue and living by their own covenants. 

“You’re on JYP territory,” says Chan, hoping his voice sounded more certain than he felt. “You must take only what you need, state your reasons for these merciless killings. What purpose do you serve?” 

The two snarled, fangs larger than Chan has ever seen in the main clans eyes glowing luminescent red in the night as they turn - more dead than alive. Their mouths, chin, and clothes are covered with blood - it is impossible that these three unfortunate victims were their first. They snarled, ringing out as loud as the thunder echoing in the night before tossing aside the young man to the ground, scampering away leaving Chan with the three dead humans. Three bodies dropped in a night by rogue, possibly feral vampires is sure to draw trouble, but Chan has bigger worries, such as the hand clutching onto his trousers. 

“Please,” the young man whispers, “Help. Them.”

Every breath is a struggle with a wound as devastating as the one in his neck. By all accounts the young man should be dead. Chan bends down, turning the human onto his back to meet his eyes. The rouge is smeared across his lips, a little even staining his teeth. His cheeks are steadily losing color, but his eyes. The vampire blinks for a moment, squinting but the young man’s eyes seem normal once more.

“Rest,” says Chan, “I will stay with you, until, until you go. They’ve already departed.” 

He situates himself comfortably in the dirt, pulling the human into a loose embrace - turned away from his female companions. The human’s gaze stays fixed on his own, eyes sparkling with a thousand stars even after the horror he’s witnessed. The human’s face is a sickly pallor, taking on the waxy sheen of the recently deceased. His pulse - once roaring in Chan’s ears - pulses weakly, but continues on nonetheless. With such a devastating wound...he should be dead by now. 

Chan wishes he could stop the bleeding, only keeping his cold fingers pressed on the wound to numb the pain, but excess fabric from ill fitting garments gets in the way. The venom in the other’s veins should have done the deed well enough. 

“Did my Lady get away?” coughs the human, “The - the third - did she - is she?”

Chan doesn’t know who his Lady is, so he shakes his head quietly in lieu of an answer. The human is far too coherent to be on death’s doorstep. The glint of the color in the human’s eyes shows again, a creeping hue of crimson. And if Chan’s heart could still beat, it would have stopped. With the pervasive smell of blood and venom clinging to the air, the pelting rain obscuring vision (even for a vampire) had been just enough to mask what the human did. 

The makeup mixed with the blood he had managed to ingest when attempting to escape his assailants. It wasn’t all rouge, but a dried smear of blood on the fledgling’s face. How much blood had he inadvertently ingested in his fight to escape the captors? Had he bitten them previously, before the gruesome attack - had this stranger ingested enough blood to even survive the pain of the Change? 

The human’s arms are covered in dark handprint shaped bruises, he has one of the most ghastly wounds Chan has ever seen and yet he steels himself and says clearly, “If there’s a chance, you must help her. Please. Help. Her.” 

Chan shakes his head, mouth gaping open as he says, “I...I can’t, the-the covenants, I can’t - she isn’t - and you -”

The other grips on tighter, even as he loses more blood out of his wound in the process, eyes shadowed by the hair plastered to his forehead. “Please, help my Lady. I am ready to die tonight.”

And Chan, lonely Bang Chan, pauses. The other has a low chance of surviving the Change with such a nasty wound, providing a secure place to pass in peace would be the least that he can do. And a fledgling - for that is what the younger is, truly - abandoned by his Sire hits a little close to home. With the rain and floral scent of venom, Chan would have no luck finding a Mistress who might not have survived the night anyway. It is better to help the human along, pass (or Change, a part of his mind whispers) in peace with his duty fulfilled. Chan’s mind was made up before the human had even asked a second time.

He meets the gaze of the younger, cradling the fledgling in his arms in a gentle embrace as he replies, “I won’t let you.” 

* * *

“You’re brooding,” says Minho, leaning against the wall with a cat on his shoulders. His hair is cropped short still and dark once more, having dyed it back again after paying his penance to Hyunjin. Although the navy sweater covers the faded scarring on his shoulder, his face is still as youthful as the night he met Chan even after 500 years. “It’s not a good look on you.” 

Chan is seated at his desk, elbows on the desk with his head in his hands. The curtains are open, the moonlight pouring over Chan’s shoulders, casting a shadow into the room. Countless papers are strewn about the table, burying his laptop - which contains more emails from the Council. 

Minho shuts the door behind him as he enters the room, knowing full well it will do little to stop Hyunjin or Changbin from listening in, if they so desired. Knowing Hyunjin - he’s probably already snooping. He flicks on the lamp on the side table before reclining on the couch languidly, crossing his legs as he looks vacantly at the chalice to the right of Chan. Dori leaps from his shoulder to skulk about Chan’s desk, pawing at the cup and spilling its contents all over the documents. Chan only sighs, watching the red liquid diffuse over the table. Neither he nor Minho make a move to clean it. In the warm lighting of the room, the red in Chan’s irises mixes to a mahogany color. A gorgeous shade of a thousand ripe black cherries luxurious in taste, almost bursting with flavor on his tongue. 

“You said you would feed hours ago,” says Minho gently, offering his own arm to Chan. “You need to feed to keep up your strength. I can miss a meal or two, but you need to ingest more to keep up your strength to take care of the young ones.” 

“I would prefer you or the others to take it right now, and keep your strength,” says Chan honestly, reaching out a finger to Dori to coax her away from the mess on the table. She hisses at him and resolutely dirties her paws, jumping off the table and leaving a bloody trail to spite him for not cleaning the mess sooner. It serves him right.

His joints are stiff as he stands, hours spent hunched over in his chair answering emails taking their toll even on his undead body. Chan strides across the room, rolling out his shoulder while gathering a spare towel from the linen closet in the hallway, tossing it haphazardly in the direction of the mess. Minho is polite enough to grab a spare pail of water - perceptive to what the older needs before being asked. Back and forth, rinse, twist, repeat. Cleaning provides a welcome distraction from Minho’s unflinching gaze, a task to focus on rather than accompany Minho on the small couch.

Much like a cat, Minho is a patient predator that bides his time until Chan comes to him. The small distraction is nothing compared to the cool, unending patience when it comes to what Minho wants. Or maybe he just wants to make Chan squirm.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do, Minho. You know we can’t get more blood bags from the Council, but feeding too much will draw too much human suspicion. We were making ends meet when we decided we could help Han, but will we be okay to take care of two newborns? The Elders are already breathing down our necks, they’re suspicious of Changbin, suspicious of Hyunjin. Of _you_ ,” says Chan.

“And we trust that you’ll do the right thing,” says Minho evenly. “Besides, that’s what you get for only taking on illicit fledglings.” 

Chan pushes the bucket to the corner, flopping on the couch, unbothered that Minho refused to scoot over and make room for him. Minho offers his arm again, but Chan gently pushes the appendage away. It’s still for a moment, the peace cut only by the buzzing of Minho’s phone, his fingers tapping away in the silence. 

“We’ll be fine, Chan, Hannie and Felix will be fine and fed. Han has already fed from Changbin twice, he’ll take to it again if need be. I’m more concerned about _you_.” 

Changbin enters the room silently, tossing the warmed blood bag to Minho who catches it easily before handing it off to Chan. Changbin perches on the arm of the couch, unbothered by the older two bickering back and forth about Chan’s wellbeing. Leaning his head on his hand with an inward smile, it almost feels like the old days when it was just the three of them. Hyunjin follows shortly after much less quietly, sprawling on top of the other three, managing to take up the entirety of the couch as he throws a hand over his eyes.

“I forgot how much work fledglings are,” Hyunjin moans, “I’m exhausted.” 

“Forgot?” snorts Minho, “When have you even interacted with another fledgling, you were Changed yesterday. Your venom hasn’t even developed properly yet.”

“It has!” cries Hyunjin indignantly, sitting upward, “That was the reason we decided we could take on Hannie in the first place. And I wasn’t Changed yesterday, it’s been seven years, I’m fully grown now, that’s almost a _decade_.” 

“A _baby_ ,” laughs Chan, running a hand through Hyunjin’s blonde locks. His hair is the longest Chan has ever seen in the “almost a decade” that they have known each other. The shadows in the younger’s eyes grow smaller with each day that passes, his personality a radiant light finally bursting through the clouds. “Need I remind you your fangs took twice as long as Changbin and Minho’s to develop, but yes, I would wager that your venom is fully developed.” 

Hyunjin hums, letting Chan’s gentle barbs roll off him. His point was supported (more or less) so he’ll take what he can get. It’s strange, not being the youngest of their small coven anymore. To think that, when this is all over, they’ll have two younger fledglings rather than the one they were expecting. Not to mention so much closer to him (and one another) in age than any one of them had anticipated. The mere thought sends a rush of excitement down Hyunjin’s spine - just talking to those who grew up using the internet will be a welcome change. 

“Your teething phase was awful, too,” says Changbin, “I swear I wasn’t that bad when I was fresh from the soil.” 

“Perhaps not your teething, but after every meal you looked like something out of slasher film, right down to the blood spray,” retorts Minho evenly. “And washing machines weren’t around so you can imagine how dry my hands got from scrubbing out bloodstains.” 

The three bicker for a little while, and Chan swears his chest is almost blooming with warmth again. Minho laughs with Changbin, face scrunching up into a smile but cards his hands through Hyunjin’s hair, skillfully tying it back out of the younger’s eyes. Hyunjin groans, shoving his face into Changbin’s thigh, but leans into the gentle caresses. It’s a vast improvement to how he was when he first came to live with them - huddled in his room, flinching at the slightest touch. 

Chan interjects and says, “Have any of you managed to find any more information on Han?”

“Well I searched through his personal items again, but aside from 50,000 won - which I am keeping - found nothing. No school ID, no wallet, no phone, no apartment keys, just the money stashed in his shoe and the family name in his jacket,” replies Hyunjin. 

“Searching online didn’t help much either,” says Changbin, “Searching by image gave me nothing - no social media, I could even find a KakaoTalk...it’s like he’s a ghost and that’s saying something coming from _us_. He’s just been erased.” 

The dread in Chan’s stomach is swirling, rushing waters of a riptide that threatens to overwhelm him. It tugs insistently at his gut, the same nagging feeling from when he first met Felix, when Minho came home dragging Han with wide eyes and blood on his face. No identifiable markers on the body except for an old tag in his bag with his family name inscribed - nothing about who he is on his person at all. Discarded carelessly in an alleyway, left to die alone from the lacerations on his chest and back. 

It’s no wonder Minho reacted so strongly.

Presently Minho blinks hard, inhaling deeply before his resolve crumbles in on itself, “I...might have found something. I spent hours going over obituaries and missing person announcements, but the only thing I could find was an obituary from a Korean family living in Malaysia from almost a year ago. He - well, let me show you.”

The obituary was nice, describing their smart and devoted son, Han Jisung. How he was planning to return to Korea to break into the music industry, dreaming of being an idol. That he was a lively child, always playing the guitar and brightening any room. How their son, Han Jisung, died before leaving Malaysia to achieve his dream.

“That’s Han - the photo, that’s our Han!” cries Hyunjin with a toothy grin, elbowing Changbin in the gut as he leans forward to get a better look at Minho’s laptop. “There’s no question - he looks just like our Hannie. I don’t get what the issue is.” 

The photo is nearly identical to the fledgling down the hall of their home. A charming smile with cheeks that make him look the slightest bit like a squirrel beam up from the screen, dressed in his school uniform. Dark hair falls neatly across his forehead, uniformly trimmed rather than the longer cut he currently has. The main difference is how young he looks, eyes filled with a youthful light and good humor that Chan suspects the current might not have - especially as they don’t know how the younger was Changed in the first place.

But he’s been wrong before. Nothing would make Chan happier than to be wrong about the fledgling who he and the others, particularly Changbin, have been tending. 

“The school photo does look like him,” admits Minho, “But the dates don’t make sense, it states that he went missing four years ago, from the date of the photo. That his body was recovered in a river eight months ago and they buried him.”

“Then he emerged from the soil,” reasons Changbin, “The timing works. Case solved.”

“And made it to Korea? What Sire would maul or _let_ their fledgling be mauled to death in an alleyway?” scoffs Minho, “He has no Sire, and you know the risk of going without one.” 

Changbin’s mouth is pursed in a thin line, the darkness in his face mars his features, obscuring his previous contentment. If Chan closes his eyes, thinks back for a moment, the red glow pierces through the darkness, matching the blood drenching clothes, soaking into the soil. A face, vacant and devoid of humanity - porcelain, completely unresponsive, not recognizing his name or his own conscience in any form. The shadow of the past lingers, clinging to the occupants of the room regardless of their immortality. Chan reaches out, tugging ever so slightly on Changbin’s sleeve, pulling him into a quick hug. 

Changbin shudders, a tremble so smooth one might think he had a slight chill. But the dead don’t get cold. Chan tightens his hold, but until Changbin asks for further help declines to say anything. In his ear, quieter than a mouse comes the quiet whisper - no more than a raspy intake of breath - of Changbin talking to himself. Taking care of Hyunjin and now Han - Jisung? - has been good for him, building his own confidence in his control and poise. Finding solace in music has helped further, but some scars hurt. 

The moment passes, as Hyunjin and Minho continue discussing possible theories - a few getting progressively crazier from the younger’s imagination and flair for the dramatic running wild. Chan wides his senses, hearing Felix’s shallow breaths in the distance - he should feed soon - and the steady decline of Jisung’s heart. They’ll need to bury him soon to be reborn in soil, but something inside Chan nags, _too soon, too early._

“His bites are too fresh,” says Hyunjin quietly, “He wasn’t Changed in Malaysia. At least not eight months ago. The venom where he was found was too strong for it to be anything but the Change. Plus, the bites...they’re similar to Felix’s, don’t you think?”

“Ah, I was hoping I was the only one who noticed it,” says Chan with a laugh laced with hysteria. “I hate to think that Hannie and Felix are the first of many, or two in a string of grisly murders and rouge turnings.”

It’ll only strain the resources the Elders and the Council can acquire, make humans more weary of those who need to hunt. It might draw suspicion to Chan’s coven of illegal vampires, if it comes down to it he will defend them until his dying breath. Well - his second death. He has already been over worst case scenarios with Changbin and Minho, will go over them with Hyunjin, should the situation call for it. 

“He could have been trafficked, lured away with the promise of work,” says Hyunjin softly, fingers trailing up to his neck. The silence is stifling, as Changbin and Minho exchange a look before subtly pulling Hyunjin a little closer in their laps. 

* * *

Hyunjin likes to claim that he walked into their home all on his own, grandly pushed open the doors and invited himself in. Grandiose and elegant, flinging the doors open with the moon lighting up the night behind him, or so the story goes, irrevocably interrupting whatever peace had settled for the last century and a half since Changbin was a fledgling. The older three do little to dispute the younger’s delusions, Minho merely agrees, adding that Hyunjin came to fulfill his half of their marriage pact.

For the record, Chan regrets allowing them to binge watch dramas together. Although Hyunjin’s tale does little justice to how they actually met one another, it does give a sense of completeness to his own sense of belonging with Chan and the others. A commitment, a _choice_ when he previously was never given one. 

Being out in the sunlight, for all that it no longer excessively burns his skin, is a pain. Not to mention Chan forgot his baseball cap and parasol, and no amount of debating could change Elder JYP’s mind. So he follows, a few respectful steps behind the elder, with his veil fluttering behind him in the gentle breeze. Chan wishes that he could appreciate the swathes of golden light spilling through the buildings, glinting off of the buildings but his vision is somewhat muddled by the veil of his neoul. It’s a traditional hat, with black silk that cascades over the brim of his hat, spilling smoothly over his skin; the translucent fabric protects him from the sun, the ties around his chin just annoying enough to have Chan trying not to show his discomfort. As forward thinking as Elder JYP and his advisors are, they often lose perception of time.

More specifically, what will _not_ draw attention on the streets of Seoul in the early evening. But his opinion was shut down, so Chan follows in full hanbok, with a woman’s veil draped over his hat secured under his chin, looking like he stepped out of the Joseon Dynasty or a period drama. Regardless the troupe looks like a funeral process dressed in dark colors with the oppressive atmosphere and larger silence surrounding them, the looks from strangers on the streets linger for a few beats too long. Yet his Elder was well intentioned, the regalia makes JYP’s point clear: the tradition of the Council is unwavering, their values still upheld and final even in the new century. 

The wait is long and slow, the work tedious as much of these favors tend to be. His joints stiffen from how long he stays crouched on the roof, awaiting the signal from the others to move in. It’s been a long time since he’s seen the other vampires that his Sire sired throughout the years, the different groups making Chan acutely aware of how long he was denied companionship. Still, he stays alone on the roof, waiting for the message to come through. Chan longs for the barbed comments of Minho, the sly smile of Changbin as he listens to his mp3 player (the _height_ of technology, Hyung) and the blossoming Korean artists in the steadily growing music industry. The moon rises high in the sky, accompanied by stars that Chan is unable to see due to the light pollution - his chest twinges as he looks around at the isolated roof. The light pollution denies the moon her company of the neighboring stars, so shall the Elders continue to refuse Chan basic wishes: that he doesn’t have to worry that, one day, they will kill Minho and Changbin merely for the crime of existing. 

The slam of the door is only matched by the thunder of footsteps and choking gasps that stutter like a car’s ignition. Gaze pulled from the sky, Chan surveys the two men sharing his rooftop - one portly, a ruddy face and fangs that glint in the night is pulling a young, lean man by the neck. Despite the purpling of his face, the bruising around his neck the young man’s eyes are lidded, face slack in almost ecstasy and he seems unperturbed by the fact that he is dangling over the busy streets of Seoul below. 

Chan doesn’t need the light of the moon to be able to see the pinhole bites littering the young man’s arms, neck, all over his chest disappearing behind the buttons of the red silk shirt. A prime example of why Elder JYP insisted that he needed the full reaches of his Coven to teach these rogue upstarts a lesson, punishment for keeping humans as blood slaves. Their willingness means nothing when they’re addicted to venom. Chan’s weight shifts, hand clenching into a fist should it come to a brawl, but the human is already safely back on the rooftop, even though his knees buckle. 

“Look at you,” groans the would-be murderer, “So helpless without me, I should just be rid of you.”

He pauses, a finger thicker than most sausage trailing over the other’s sculpted features before drifting down to his neck once more. The human chokes wetly, the effects of the venom starting to wind down as he hisses in pain, whimpering quietly even as his windpipe is all but crushed. The poor human is laying on the dirty roof now, hair fanned out around him in a dark halo, his eyelashes fluttering as he drifts in out of consciousness. Chan stands, attention split between the scene unfolding in front of his eyes and the vibrating phone in his pocket, watching as the other vampire leans down, licking a stripe up the human’s chest.

 _One moment won’t hurt_ , he reasons, flicking through the messages from BamBam about how Chan needs to head downstairs now. The second hand passes on the clock. _Tick_.

“But I think I should _preserve_ you, my pretty doll,” croons the vampire. “Open wide.” 

Chan pockets his phone, hurrying forward as the vampire’s mouth curls into something that might be reminiscent of a smile. But it is a predatory gesture, lips curling back to show blood stained fangs as he presses a kiss to the human’s mouth. In another life, another situation, it might have looked tender to an onlooker, but the press on the throat so the human gasps once more and the aggression behind the kiss makes Chan’s stomach lurch. The blood from the cut on the other vampire’s hand tells Chan everything he needs to know. _Tock_.

He’s too late. 

Even as a creature of the night, Bang Chan is not incredibly frightening nor is he prone to violence. Yet feeling the anger seize his chest, the shame at not doing anything clouding his mind - condemning this poor human even further - blocks all of his conscious thought. The other vampire is tossed across the roof in a moment, scrambling backward as he finally registers the third occupant of the space. The rest passes in a dreamlike blur of sensation and little else: only the feeling of making contact with the stomach and the slick slide of blood on his knuckles from the contents of the other’s stomach make themselves known. All pleas fall on deaf ears. 

“Chan?” A hand on his shoulder, forcefully turning the vampire away from the other to reorient the attention. The scumbag takes the moment to hobble away, an animal going to lick its wounds as he flees down the stairs. Inwardly Chan hopes that he will be arrested, sent to be punished with the rest of the rogue clan. That his circle of hell will hold just a little more discomfort. 

The eyes that meet those of BamBam are vacant, over forty-five minutes since he sent his initial text to Chan, at least ten since the garbled, nonsensical reply from the other. Chan is listless, drifting as he pulls away, staggering back toward the body on the ground. 

“Are you alright, Chan?” asks BamBam, again, hoping for the other to register his presence this time, that whatever demon possessing the other fled. Chan nods, continuing to kneel mournfully next to the human, head in his hands. 

“I wasn’t fast enough, I couldn’t help you, I couldn’t even help him,” mutters Chan. _If he couldn’t help one human, couldn’t maintain the trust of his Coven, then how can he guarantee Minho and Changbin’s safety?_ BamBam sits down next to him, a reassuring presence on his side, hand grazing Chan’s lower back as they survey the damage. One of their seniors approaches, gentle hands tug BamBam away. There’s a tight hug, a firm embrace around Chan’s shoulders, a whisper on his shoulder of a promise to meet soon and then nothing. 

Crying is such a human emotion. It’s rare for vampires to cry, especially ones who are as relatively old as Chan. But the red steaks course trail down his cheeks, leaving bloody reminders of what he failed to do. The tap of heels grows closer, but still the tears keep slipping down his face. Regardless of the compromising position, Chan leans forward and intertwines his hand with the young man on the ground. If only to offer a little companionship when he is killed.

Hyuna is as graceful as ever, features sculpted by the gods themselves. She sits down next to him, flipping a zippo lighter on and off, offering a cigarette to Chan. The human is still unconscious, respiration raspy as if a wasp had managed to sting the inside of his throat - a sore heat behind the unimaginable discomfort. The lighter clicks on again, Hyuna cupping her hands around the cigarette before shoving the lighter back in the pocket of her coat. 

“Started smoking in the 20s and haven’t bothered to quit,” she says, in lieu of a greeting. They both know why she’s here, her presence required as one of the contingencies of leaving Elder JYP’s Coven so long ago. Even now the accords, nuances of bureaucracy seem to affect even the most independent of individuals. Hyuna’s smaller Coven, due to their discretion and size, is able to pull strings that the larger entities of the Council cannot - taking out the dirty laundry, so to speak. One of the caveats of being allowed to leave freely. 

“Can’t see a reason to stop,” she says again almost to herself. It’s odd to see her lipstick staining the cigarette as she reclines on the wall of the roof, back illuminated by the thousand lights of the city. Yet the beauty of the scene, the quiet of the moment is shattered by the task at hand. “How unfortunate.”

Her voice is softer than silk, impassive as water flowing over a creekbed, bordering on the edge of tender as she taps her cigarette ashes onto the concrete. Yet her eyes are as dark as the night, just as sweet and sad as Chan remembers being reflected in his own. He squeezes the boy’s hand once more, imagining that he almost feels a weak flutter in return. Hyuna takes another drag of her cigarette, leaning back as she exhales smoke into the sky. 

“You know him?” she asks. 

“No,” says Chan, “I just, I thought he wouldn’t want to be alone.” _I feel like it’s my fault,_ goes unsaid. Hyuna seems to understand the underlying sentiment regardless.

“So young,” she sighs, “Barely 18 and already held for years only to be betrayed in the end by those that he was forced to serve.”

Chan holds the younger’s hand a little tighter, nodding quietly. Hyuna rolls her eyes, casually flicking her cigarette to the ground and stamping it out under the sole of her shoe. He purses his lips, waiting for Hyuna to...do something, however she was planning on taking the unconscious boy’s life. She pulls a wickedly sharp knife, almost a machete in length, from her coat. Chan shuts his eyes, anticipating the thwack of the decapitation and the click of the zippo lighter. 

“Chan,” says Hyuna, tapping the tip of the knife against her palm, “I know about the others you are harboring.” 

His grip on the younger’s hand tightens. _Crunch._ He opens his eyes, surveying whether or not he managed to break a bone in the other’s hand - his pinky is bent at an awkward angle. Oops. Hyuna still seems casual, but her gaze is levelled at Chan. 

“How? Does the Council know?”

“I know because I can tell when someone is hiding something, but others will talk soon if you aren’t careful. Go. Take Hyunjin with you. Tell him that Dawn sends his love, and that he kept his promise.” 

The blood den has long since been cleared, looking as immaculate as the day the building was built. No signs of the lecherous behavior occurring only hours earlier, only traces of the heavy scent of venom hang in the air - masked by the scent of industrial cleaning agents and the stronger undercurrent of death. Still, even as Chan props Hyunjin against a wall across from the sink, the ambience of the place has already settled under his skin, itching and crawling like a thousand spiders. 

Chan pulls off one of the outer layers of his hanbok - foregoing propriety and thankful for the endless layers of fabric - as he wets the cloth, making slow work of cleaning Hyunjin’s exposed skin and wounds. The fledgling’s face, neck, and part of his chest will be a challenge enough without invading the younger’s privacy. They won’t be able to get far on the street with the younger looking so disheveled - but maybe Chan would be able to get away saying it was a costume party. A vampire and a historical drama protagonist walk into a shady hotel - it sounds like the plot of the bad dramas Minho and Changbin have gotten hooked on lately.

Hyunjin doesn’t show any sign of consciousness until Chan has them tucked away into an inconspicuous hotel a few blocks away, away from anyone who might come prowling back to the blood den on the Council’s behalf. It’s a cheap hotel, the curtains an ugly shade of baby vomit, looking battered and worn. The popcorn ceiling is water stained and the bedsheets have seen better days. As gross as the room is, it is free of bed bugs and it is not a love hotel which was more than Chan could have hoped for.

Part of him whispers to just whisk Hyunjin away to his home, have him meet Minho and Changbin and deal with the consequences later. It would be safer to not have a stray fledgling out on the streets, not to mention Hyunjin looks frail. Chan’s hindbrain just wants Hyunjin to be bathed in all of the love and safety that the three older vampires could possibly provide, but reasoning leaves him inclined to pause. Perhaps bringing the victim of a blood den to his Coven would not be ideal, seemingly exchanging location for abuse. Having this conversation in a bedroom is an abysmal choice of location, but Chan is less inclined to talk about how Hyunjin is in the process of the Change in say, Starbucks. Loudly announcing that Chan is a vampire and that Hyunjin is in the process of dying seems overkill. 

“Oh,” says Chan softly, as Hyunjin sits up, face screwed up as he attempts to sit up on the bed. He props himself up on his elbows, only for his arms to shake and give out - useless jello noodles. “You’re awake. I’m sorry, I was just leaving to give you some privacy and leave something for you to eat when you woke up.” 

Eat is a loose term and blood packs aren’t exactly easy to come by, but Chan has never been more thankful for the invention of cell phones. A quick text to Minho and the other was on his way at who knows how early in the morning. 

Hyunjin pays Chan no mind, eyes miles away locked on something invisible in the distance. He can barely sit up, body already in the early stages of the Changes’ fever, but he’s listless, nervous even. He’s murmuring to himself, shying away from the threat that only he perceives. Who knows how long he was a victim in the blood den? The withdrawal symptoms coupled with the trauma brew an ugly concoction for how the rest of Hyunjin’s Change will go. 

And Chan knows he can’t be there to help. He refuses to hold Hyunjin against his will. 

Minho announces his arrival with a tentative knock on the door, greeting Chan with a nod before handing over the cooler. Tucked neatly inside are fifty uniform blood packs, far more than Chan was expecting their reserves to have, if he was being honest. Yet Minho always shows that he cares in subtle ways, he supposes. Even if draining their own reserves is an odd way to go about it. Supplies always seem to be running low these days anyway, a few weeks of struggle won’t be an issue. Chan grabs one, pulling off the top before offering it out to Hyunjin. 

“That’s blood,” says Hyunjin, pushing the offered bag away. 

“It is,” agrees Chan with a smile, before pushing it across the bed again. It’s not a suggestion. “Are you hungry? If you are lucid so early on in the Change, I have a feeling you might be.” 

“No,” says Hyunjin, hands flying to his throat, then his hair, grabbing fistfuls. His face is flushed hot, trembling with anger even as sweat beads on his forehead. “I’m not eating that. I don’t want to. That wasn’t real, this isn’t real. ‘M human.” 

His hands press against his chest, feeling the slow beating of his heart before stumbling forward, grabbing Chan’s hand and shoving it against his chest. His eyes are wide and watery, framed by lashes with a delicate placing of tears. Chan tries not to feel the way Hyunjin trembles distaste discoloring his features as he forces himself to initiate skin to skin contact. His heart beats a slow familiar, thud that all pre-soil fledglings have, the Change doing its best to tie up any loose ends - wounds, the bruising around his neck - as the body stops the aging process. 

“ _See_ ?” His voice cracks, as he holds Chan’s hands against his heart. His shoulders hunch forward, as he looks at Chan sitting near him, Minho near the doorway. “You-you’re just saying that because you think fear tastes sweet. ‘S not real. I’m _human_.”

“I’m sorry,” says Chan slowly, mouth hanging open and lips too dry. He can almost feel the tension headache forming, searching rapidly for a solution that won’t come. “My name is Chan, this is my partner Minho, we, we’re trying to help you -”

Minho walks into the room, shutting the door behind him. He sets the second bag, an old beaten up duffle, bulging with all of the different items he managed to stuff in it on short notice, on the luggage rack. From where he’s sitting, Chan can feel every one of Hyunjin’s muscles tense. He leans backward almost imperceptibly, muscles tense and ready for a fight as his adrenaline kicks in. Even in a fledgling, it’s a recipe for disaster. 

“This has some clothes, if you want them, so you don’t have to continue wearing the, um, uniform. It includes hats, masks, and sunscreen - be sure to apply it liberally if you go out at dusk. Burns _hurt_. Be sure to drink that blood pack entirely and another one every 12 hours. It will last you almost a month. Chan, let’s go.”

“Minho - we can’t -”

The other cuts him off with a look, eyes meeting for a moment. Minho’s eyes, ever since his Change, are the color of currants, sometimes after feeding almost a hybrid of black and red currants. As close to his birth eye color as he will ever achieve again. It’s a fitting color given how the acidity of currants disrupts their sweetness. 

Yet Minho leaves no room for arguing, pulling Chan away from the bed with a forceful tug. Hyunjin sits cross legged on the bed, startling viciously as Minho tosses him a phone. 

“Our contact information is on there, if you need someone to talk to. We’ll support you in any way that you can, even if that means just getting more blood packs.”

Chan knows why Minho did what he did. He knows that Hyunjin was in no frame of mind to ask for help, to trust random strangers, to feel comfortable talking about what he endured in a hotel room. Human drugs do little for a vampire, fledglings also don’t react the same way humans do to venom. 

“Chan, we’ve done what we can. We gave him food, money, clothes, a phone. Aside from housing - which were listed in the pamphlets as well as addiction and counseling centers - there is nothing else we could do for him. He was a caged bird, we opened the door but we couldn’t be the ones to pull him out of his cage.” 

As usual, Minho is right. 

Months go by, nearly half a year until they see Hyunjin again. 

He has dirt smeared all over his face and he’s shaking like a leaf in the wind as he knocks on their door. They’ll let him remember all of his pomp and circumstance as he sees fit, but the reality is much different. He’s lost weight, has barely been eating and is fresh from the soil. Clenched in a muddy grip is the crumpled address and message that Chan had tossed in the trashcan in the hotel so many moons before. _Bang Chan - phone xxx-xxx-xxxx, address xxxxxx p.s. Dawn sends his love._

* * *

“So why aren’t they coherent yet?” asks Hyunjin, poking Jisung in the cheek. Changbin slaps at his hand lightly, but continues helping Jisung sit up, trying to get enough wakefulness in the younger that he feeds properly. 

Their fevers have been some of the worst that they’ve dealt with. Of course, Changbin only has Hyunjin as (technical?) experience, from the few days Minho pulled him out of their home without Chan’s knowledge to help the younger. No more than twice, just to help the other find his way to Hyuna and Dawn, and ease some of the withdrawal symptoms. It was better that way - to not let their leader worry and have peace of mind themselves. 

The fragile condition of the new fledglings doesn’t help matters. Changbin knows, inwardly, that Hyunjin’s hopes have been sky high, even if he won’t elaborate. But for all of the excitement, it has remained unclear whether the pair, Jisung, especially, would pull through. Minho and Chan never once vocally doubted the pair, but Changbin has known them for almost 300 years. The way Minho cradled cold and flu medicine in his hand for a solid five minutes at the corner store before putting it back on the shelf reluctantly is a good indication. Chan doing favors again for the larger coven and neighboring covens, for information, favors, and additional blood packs is worrisome. 

Both fledglings turning the corner provides enough hope for Changbin. Felix is finally taking meals, and keeping them down well enough, but it is pushing two months that he has been under their diligent care and the fever has yet to break. Jisung’s fever has faded and his infection is starting to look less zombie-like, less brown-green and weeping around the slashes on his chest. For all that Jisung has been managing to take blood from the start, his wounds were a lot more serious than Felix’s. Mauled was putting it lightly - when Minho chanced upon the younger, his chest was all but torn to shreds. Red tissue paper scattered throughout the dim alleyway in the dead of night. 

The fact that Jisung was turned at all was nothing short of a miracle - it was either part of the struggle of avoiding his captor or another entity entirely. Biting enough to draw blood would not be enough to survive the wounds, even with the Change. Hence why Chan and Minho keep forcing more blood into the fledglings. 

The fledgling, or pre-soil, part of the Change varies in time. The less blood a fledgling intakes - particularly from their Sire - the longer and more grueling the Change becomes. A few drops is enough to start the Change, but it will be a long, arduous process - one that is painful enough on its own. After pushing away endless meters of soil and escaping the dark, the development of fangs and venom generally has a good guideline for Sires to follow. It’s not fast, but in the span of a millennia it makes some sense.

“Hyunjin-ah, could you hand me that gauze, please? I want to redress Jisung’s wounds,” says Changbin, pushing his musings from his mind. 

Hyunjin huffs lightly at the lack of response, but slides off the edge of the bed, grabbing the gauze off the tray and tossing it to the other. 

Wrapping the gauze with Hyunjin’s supervision - even if the other is wincing, gagging at the sight of Jisung’s stitched chest. Changbin elects not to comment that Hyunjin has worse and has seen Jisung looking worse. The younger still helps, grabs Jisung ever so gently to prop him up on the bed so Changbin can check his stitches and rewrap the gauze. Hyunjin’s gaze remains heavy and expectant and the older man knows he can’t avoid responding forever. 

“The Change is not a fast reset, Hyunjin-ah, it’s a miracle Jisung didn’t die from his wounds alone. Vampirism isn’t a cure all.” 

“But why can’t it go  _ faster _ ?” asks Hyunjin, “Are we doing something wrong?”

“I don’t think we’re doing anything wrong, Hyunjin-ah, try not to worry,” replies Changbin seriously while tying off Jisung’s gauze. His cold fingers press into the fledgling’s clammy neck, check for the pulse again after two hours as Chan had asked. It’s slower still now, even though Jisung’s wakeful moments have been few and far between. Nearly comatose, lucid only when taking meals - if the definition of lucid is stretched as thin as possible.

“Is there anything I can do to help, hyung?” 

Changbin pauses, setting down the empty cup and helping Jisung lay back down on the bed. Hyunjin knows that his hyungs are perceptive, it takes little more than a tilt of Changbin’s head to know that the other knows everything. With a smile, Changbin beckons him to follow, pulling him out into the hallway to not disturb Jisung’s fitful rest. 

“Is that what’s bothering you, Hyunjin-ah?”

“No, well, yes, but - don’t tell Chan,” the younger says quickly. “I just. I don’t want them to be alone, like…”  _ Like me. _

Which is why the younger man doesn't want Chan to know. 

Hyunjin’s months as a fledgling were spent (more or less) in isolation and in misery. He rarely discusses it with Changbin, mentions it even less to Minho and Chan. The inevitable comparison of how Jisung and Felix have been thus far in comparison to his own experience - the realization is a heavy weight in Changbin’s stomach. 

“Hyunjin, may I hug you?” The younger nods, and Changbin pulls Hyunjin in tightly, thankful for his own strength to try and convey the extent of his own emotions. The younger shakes for a moment before sighing, sinking down into the embrace, paying little mind to the height difference as he tucks his head on Changbin’s shoulder. 

“I am so sorry we weren’t there for you,” the older whispers into the soft blonde locks. “We wanted you to be able to find your way, but we should’ve worked harder.”

“No,” whispers Hyunjin, “I’m just being dumb, it’s not your fault. I wouldn’t have been able to say no if you asked me to come with you, it’s better...in some ways.”

Changbin kisses the crown of Hyunjin’s hair as soft as a petal, caressing him a few times before saying, “You’re not being dumb, your emotions are valid. It’s not better. But it is what it is.” 

They sit together, reclining into one another for comfort. Touch didn’t always come easy for Hyunjin, but slowly, reaching out is easier if he knows that those who will reach back are his hyungs. He clings to the other, wrapping an arm around Changbin’s midsection as he dozes. The other scrolls for a while on his phone, occasionally carding a hand through Hyunjin’s hair. 

Later, almost daybreak, they’ve migrated to the kitchen. It’s almost time for Jisung to eat again, so while watching Changbin find everything that he needs, Hyunjin sits on the countertop in their kitchen. As he turns around to stare out at the dark streets from the adjacent window, the streets light up once more. The rain has been falling steadily for almost three days, cannon fire still booming with little rest after each lightning strike. The street below is flooding, standing water pouring into every nook and cranny that it can find, drowning the sidewalk. Despite the pouring rain obscuring visibility to near nothing, there’s a blurry figure walking down the street. Hunched over, drawn in on themselves to keep out the chill wearing nothing but a soaked sweatshirt. Yet before Hyunjin can beckon Changbin over - they’ve all but disappeared after another split moment of blinding light. 

The older vampire pushes a cup of tea into his hands, if not for taste then for warmth. His eyes follow the vacancy that Hyunjin’s gaze is locked on, but sees nothing. The shadow has passed and daybreak is approaching. 

“Think about what I said, okay?” Changbin says softly, “I’m always here if you want to talk. I do think you should talk to Chan, when you get a chance.” 

* * *

When the rain stops, so does Jisung’s pulse.

Four months seems a quick turnaround to Chan, but he doesn’t dare say anything. Any more negativity, any fear that the young man won’t make it is less than appreciated. Felix continues to do better, his pulse starting a faster plummet than Jisung’s slow descent. The blood has helped, he’s certain.

They bury Jisung - it’s not easy. People are so suspicious nowadays, transporting two (nearly) dead individuals from a densely populated city to the farther property could draw concern, especially when done in the middle of the night. Things are so crowded these days, even cemeteries teem with people both alive and dead. Changbin and Chan have some land - technically, so does Minho, even if he says nothing - and they move out of Seoul for the moment. Felix’s pulse falls farther. The days pass by slowly, then all at once. Blurring into one another as the fear and panic fade into normalcy, an understanding of the new reality. 

They’re taking a risk - Jisung has been so weak, they haven’t even had a proper conversation to know that he’ll come out the other side as a newborn vampire, shedding his fledgling status and previous life. His wounds have healed, once smooth skin marred by a fresh scar. Yet that’s not to speak of the wounds on his mind and conscious, all but comatose for the past three months. 

The moon waxes and wanes fully, another month as Felix’s pulse finally stops.

All they have is hope. Long nights spent, hovering, worrying. Changbin’s nail beds are bitten down to bits, even if he thinks they look fine - Hyunjin primly tells him otherwise. 

And then, the soil shifts. Hands, pushing away mountains of dark, fertile soil. The boy, hair only a touch longer than the day he died, manages to pull himself up and out of the grave. Chan stares, a smile twitching in the corner of his mouth as the young vampire wipes at his eyes. He presses a hand to his chest, face falling into a pout as he breathes unsteadily - more out of habit than need. 

And finally Han Jisung’s eyelashes flutter and his eyes blink open, looking up to meet Chan’s gaze, his eyes the color of the richest wine.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s bright - blinding and overwhelming, flooding every one of his senses until Jisung thinks that he might hurl. It takes a moment to realize that the light isn’t the sun nor is it a stark white room of a hospital but delicate moonbeams shining down on what he knows to be his grave. The grave that he just crawled out of. He blinks hard, shutting his eyes as best as he can, squinting against the harsh blue light of the moon. Instinctively, he knows it to be nighttime, pitch-dark save for the light of the moon - only a thin sliver in the sky - but as far as Jisung is concerned it is daylight.

Everything is in clear detail - without squinting (much) he can even make out dewdrops beading on the leaves of the trees, and can see a snake slithering in the underbrush chasing a mouse. Even when he was aliv - not previously in a grave he could not see this well. The level of clarity makes broad daylight seem dim in comparison. The hum of crickets is thunder in his ears, overwhelming and insistent, begging for him to pay attention. 

Jisung hunches over slightly, falling further onto his knees while slamming his hands over his ears and shutting his eyes. Cool hands clasping his own pull him from his reverie, gently wiping away the tears beading at his eyes from the sheer sensory overload. He looks...young, has fluffy black hair and a kind smile kissed by dimples on either side. It gives him an almost innocent look, graced with a smile just crooked enough to promise mischief. The only thing that seems to ruin the image are his eyes - impossibly dark, but Jisung’s senses have never been better.

It’s a dark shade of brown, mahogany, almost but an unmistakable glint of red shines through in the darkness. His smile grows a little wider and Jisung thinks that he sees a fang poke through. 

He’s losing his mind. Maybe he is in a hospital and this is a strange coma dream sent to mock him. It’s a nice looking coma dream, to be fair. The hands on his cheeks slide down toward his hands, clasping them gently, tugging upward and coaxing him to stand. Although he isn’t feeling pain, Jisung’s body seems to feel the exhaustion of digging through endless soil - his legs shake wildly and he stumbles into the other. 

The man - stranger seems odd, too informal, a memory tugs on Jisung’s consciousness - has a firm grip, steadies Jisung. Holds Jisung like he was always meant to be there and Jisung finds that his cheeks are wet before he even realizes that he is crying. The younger reaches up, hand shaking to swipe the few stray tears away, and stays in the warm embrace of the other. Part of him thinks that he should run, flee from the stranger but something in him still tugs in his memory. 

A warm voice, calming hand on his forehead when he was unconscious, talking to him like he was a friend even though they’ve never spoken. Staying with him when his heart stopped beating, never giving up on him. Yes, in a way Jisung is sure that he knows this man, even if he knows nothing about him. Regardless, he gave the newborn something to focus on, senses zeroing in on the older vampire rather than the din of the night. 

“Hello,” greets Chan with a grin. 

“Hello,” responds Jisung with a smile blossoming on his own face. 

* * *

In an odd turn of events, Minho is the one to be present when Felix pulls himself out of the grave. It’s coincidence really, having walked back from the store (cars are tedious and noisy, but they are living in a remote area) when he hears the shifting of soil, a muffled huff of exertion. And he just doesn’t move - doesn’t go to grab Chan, doesn’t even set his bags down. The older man stands there blinking for a minute, the moment quiet save for the quiet rustle of Minho’s shopping bag. It takes another half hour, lean hands pushing aside dirt as Felix’s head finally pops out of the soil followed by his arms. The newborn shakes his head slightly, shedding dirt much like a dog dries itself off. 

“You sure you’re done cooking?” Minho asks, glancing at the empty grave that Felix is sitting on, feet dangling in the soil as casually as a parent watching their child play in a public pool. It’s fast. Not all newborns necessarily need the same amount of time in the soil - but Felix’s wounds weren’t exactly stellar. Felix’s brow knits together as he nods in response, answering quietly while following Minho’s gaze into his grave. 

“I think so,” he responds, looking upward. Minho has no troubles seeing in the dark, has had over 500 years to hone his senses to perfection, but the detail on Felix’s face is indescribable. A smattering of both dirt and freckles kiss his cheeks, bangs a little shaggy in the front - Hyunjin will need to style it into something more manageable - and the pajamas that he was buried in. His eyes are indescribable, soulful pools of sinful scarlet a few shades lighter than those of Jisung. 

Minho isn’t sure, now, how they will be able to balance both Jisung and Felix. They had planned for a month and a half between Felix and Jisung’s rebirth from the soil. Once he started feeding, Felix healed up a lot faster, but he wasn’t unscathed in the event that prompted his turning. Four months - 2 in fever, 2 in soil. Jisung toiled for four months recovering from his wounds, accepting the Change and spent 3 in soil. The timing couldn’t be more against them - it’s only been a day since Jisung managed to pull himself up from the soil. 

Maybe it’s due to the proximity of Felix’s Sire. 

He doesn’t know. 

“Can you stand,” he asks, offering a hand to Felix. The other clasps it firmly, Minho hoisting him the rest of the way out of the soil and onto his feat - Felix wavers unsteadily from the unexpected display of from a relatively petite man. Minho steadies him gently, brushing off the excess dirt from the newborn’s front and turning him in direction of the house. 

“How are you feeling?” asks Minho, wishing Chan were here - better at both smalltalk and helping fledglings refine their senses. The vampire honestly doesn’t know where they would be if it wasn’t for Chan - certainly Changbin would have been overwhelmed from the Change. Minho himself almost was. 

“Different,” replies Felix with a strained laugh, “I don’t have a heartbeat, but everything else is so loud. And bright.” 

Minho laughs, tosses his head back for a moment with a smile before sliding his gaze back over to Felix. He pauses for a moment wondering if he shouldn’t have laughed, but Felix has a small smile on his face, eyes scrunching up a little - and he looks entirely different. Even younger, lighting up the night as their very own sunshine. 

“It will be that way for a while, unfortunately,” replies Minho, returning the smile. “Come, you must be hungry.”

They walk together, padding near-silently through the grass toward the house. The loudest noise is the swish of Minho’s bags but as they approach he can hear the high pitch giggle of Chan joining in with the infectious short chuckles from Changbin and Hyunjin, the youngest laughing hard. It covers up Jisung’s laugh - perhaps he just isn’t that familiar with it yet - but it makes a warm picture to go home to. The quiet crunch of the grass next to him stops, Minho turning to see Felix looking at the house hesitantly, and knows that the newborn can hear the others as well. 

He digs his heels in for a moment and Minho tugs his hand away from the door toward the back gardens. The gardens were overgrown from lack of care, vines creeping every which way in the underbrush. In the winter now - no snow, Earth wet from steady rain - it’s a grove of gnarled branches that scrape skin. It’s harsh and unforgiving without the greenery, but Minho almost prefers it this way. It’s the aesthetic of autumn.

The older sits on the swing that screeches its protest under his weight, patting the seat next of him for Felix to sit down. The newborn does hesitantly, even as the swing creaks and groans louder. The breeze is cold but although Felix is in short sleeves, he doesn’t even notice. It’s an odd feeling, to feel the rush of cool air on one’s face but not be affected by the penetrating chill of winter. They rock back and forth for a little while, Minho more than cognizant of the fact that Felix’s eyes (and stomach, surely) are bright with hunger. 

“Chan and I bought this house when we met Changbin, whom you’ll meet later, around 1710, maybe? Changbin...had a rough time as a newborn as well, so this house is meant to be a safe place for us. You’ll be okay here,” says Minho gently. 

“How old are you?” asks Felix with wide eyes

Minho smirks, “It’s rude to ask someone their age, you know. And I’m not a day over 508, thank you. Chan-hyung is older than I am, he helped you the most when you were, um, sick.” 

“My memories were right then,” says Felix softly, “I’m not...human anymore. Or alive.” 

“I’m afraid not,” replies Minho. 

The stages of grief present differently in everyone, but Felix didn’t seem to be in denial or despair at the loss of his previous life. He nods once, draws his knees but to his chest but otherwise stays silent. His eyes are glossy, far away, but there are no tears brimming within them. Minho makes a mental note to see how the younger is adjusting later. 

“Are you ready to go inside?”

Felix’s eyes, saccharine rubies, glint in the dark. In the distance, the house is as lively as ever; if Minho focuses, he thinks he can see traces of the longing in Felix’s eyes. The accent in his voice hasn’t gone unnoticed either, how long has this newborn been waiting in the wings - on the outskirts, trying to find a sense of belonging, of purpose? His fingers graze over his throat, sandpaper dry and aching, longing for something (he knows what). Felix’s hand clenches and unclenches for a moment before he wordlessly shakes his head.

“I think I’ll wait out here for a moment, yet, if that’s alright,” murmurs Felix. His voice is deeper now, a little raspy from how thirsty he must be. 

“I’ll stay with you.”

Rather than continue speaking, Minho slides his phone out and sends a simple message to Chan and waits. There’s an eternity ahead of Felix, there’s no reason to rush into things now. It’s the early hours of the morning, on the cusp of daybreak and one of the few things Minho can clearly remember of his human life. One of the things he misses from his human life, getting up before dawn to take the long trek from the countryside into his village where he would visit his Lady. Watching the sun spill over the horizon, the indigo sky lightening to a periwinkle each morning is all the more sweeter without feeling the chill of the morning. 

Felix’s head has already snapped in the direction of Chan’s light footsteps a stray withered vine snaps under his foot. He sends an apologetic smile their way, greets Minho with a warm hug and a caress of his cheek before sitting leisurely in between Minho’s legs on the ground. For the apex predator of creatures, Chan’s hands and expressions are remarkably soft, untarnished from labor or violence, only the impressions and callouses from his gayageum on his fingertips are noticeable. His hands match his soul. 

Privately, they have always been one of Minho’s favorite things about Chan. 

“It’s late, Minho, you should head to bed,” says Chan earnestly. “I can stay up with Felix for a while yet. Make sure he eats and that he’s settled.” 

Minho tangles his fingers with Chan’s for a moment, squeezing hard before standing and bowing his goodbyes. A warm smile to Felix that is returned tentatively before grabbing his bag and heading inside. Inside Changbin and Hyunjin are arguing with Jisung sitting next to them, smiling as if he has known them all of his life. Minho turns for a moment, seeing the dawn begin to give way to rays of golden light that illuminate the two figures in the garden and thinks, for the first time in 500 years, he might feel the warmth from that light.

* * *

Felix can’t sleep. 

The room is dark - ultra proof blackout curtains made sure of that - and it’s silent. Vampires don’t need to breathe. So, realistically, there isn’t any reason he shouldn’t be able to sleep. Except for the fact that he has been sleeping for months - actual months - and it is noon. The middle of a vampire’s night, but it still feels like his day. That he should be berating himself for spending all day in bed, roll out of bed and start his day. He turns to his side, pulling his comforter up to his chin. 

His body aches in a way, restless and agitated, his throat as dry as it’s been since he crawled out of the ground. His eyelids are heavy, drooping closed, longing for sleep in a way that just doesn’t make sense to him. Yet each time he shuts his eyes, hours seem to pass with no payoff - just spent waiting. Felix coughs a little, throat aching, reaching blindly on his nightstand for a glass of water only to remember it’s not there. 

The door creaks and Felix is upright in bed, hands clenching the sheet, breathing a little hard while locking eyes with another vampire. They stare at one another for a moment, the only sources of sound in the house. The intruder has a soft face, round cheeks and blanches, murmuring quick apologies while bowing for interrupting. 

“I’m so sorry, I was just exploring. I can't sleep,” whispers the other, but it sounds like thunder in Felix’s ears. Just as the door’s hinge had screamed in his ears, overwhelming especially in the relative quiet of the house.

“No - it’s okay,” says Felix, “You can come in, I don’t mind.”

The door clicks shut and the other pads across the room, still meeting Felix’s gaze. Felix pats the part of the bed across from him, sitting up properly and crossing his legs. The newcomer’s expression melts, relief visible even to the other. 

“Thanks, I really couldn’t sleep. I don’t know how I’m supposed to sleep when it’s so bright outside, even with the curtains.”

Felix laughs, smiling as he nods saying, “I couldn’t sleep either. Even the tiny slivers of light coming from where the curtain meets the wall is overwhelming. My name is Felix.”

“Oh!” cries the other, bowing in greeting, “I’m Jisung.” 

A warm feeling blooms in the pit of Felix’s stomach, starting as a small flame until it’s a roaring fire that consumes his whole chest. A weighted warmth, a weighted blanket of comfort from within that reassures him that everything will be alright, a certainty that only comes once a lifetime. Even from the initial conversation, Felix can say with no hesitation that Han Jisung will be an incredibly important person in his life. 

He’s giggling, shoving his face into Jisung’s side with a smile large enough to take over his whole face. It is a needed salve, soothing the burn of uncertainty the whirlwind within the last twelve hours: realizing he’s no longer human and the experience of waking up buried (semi) alive made him a frayed wire. Talking with Chan helped but having Jisung here, someone going through the exact same transition and post-trauma that he is, is a safety net. 

Jisung doesn’t mention how he was turned. But from the way Chan talked about how he and Jisung were turned - the younger can wager a guess. At the very least, Felix knows it wasn’t pretty. 

“Do you remember what happened?” Chan asked, titling his head ever so slightly. The early morning air is cool on Felix’s skin, but he doesn’t feel cold. The older vampire’s accent is soothing, a memory of a home left behind. 

“You were there, in the alley, after the...after I...after,” finishes Felix. His face would flush if he had blood circulating in his system, feeling foolish for saying it. “You...turned me?”

“Yes,” replies Chan, “You asked me to. Otherwise I would have let you pass on. I would not turn anyone without their consent.”

He doesn’t need to close his eyes to remember it, still feeling the pain in his side, the wetness clinging to his side. Walking home from his internship with a music company, excited to be working his way up and working with others - unsure if he wants to pursue a career as an idol or musician. That day had been one of the few very good days, he had a spring in his step and was humming under his breath. Finally striking a happy medium while finding his niche in Seoul. It was the route he always took, well-lit, well populated but somehow no one was around to witness what happened. The growl, unnatural and animalistic, still rings in his ears, the jewel-red eyes pierce through the dark of night. The fangs were the last image he saw before being shaken awake by Chan in an unfamiliar alleyway - apparently halfway across Seoul.

If he lets his thought wander, his hands become wet once more with his own blood, feeling a phantom of Chan’s face against his palms. The fear clogging his throat, tears escaping like a leaky pipe as nonsensical things spilled over his lips, his hopes and dreams never to be realized. Begging Chan to stay so he wouldn’t have to die alone, thousands of kilometers from home. He can still hear the whispered promise ringing in his ears, even months later. 

Felix doesn’t want to think about it right now. But he can’t stop thinking about it either.

“Do you remember anything after that?” probes Chan gently, seeing Felix’s hands shake from how hard he’s clutching his pants. Changing the topic of the day Felix became a fledgling, avoiding what was making him so visibly uncomfortable. “Before you came out of the soil today?”

“I threw up in bed,” says Felix, refusing to meet the other’s gaze. Much of his memory is spotty, but he does remember hearing Chan’s voice, coaxing him to drink, comforting him when he was sick. It’s a nice memory even if he knows he was delirious at the time. He thinks he remembers others visiting as well, but it passed in dreamless sleep. 

“Yes...that did happen, but the sheets didn’t stain. You were worried about that, the next time we spoke. We had a conversation or two when you were sick, do you remember those?” 

Felix shakes his head slowly, hair falling into his eyes. “Chan -” says Felix, turning abruptly before meeting the eyes, whose surprise matches his own. Chan hadn’t been certain that Felix remembered his name, Felix blinked at the words tumbling out of his mouth before having a chance to think about filtering himself. “Chan...I’m afraid.”

Their gazes met for a moment, but before Felix even had the opportunity to register how open he had been, Chan leaned forward and clasped his shoulders. 

“I know,” he says with a genuine smile, “But you don’t need to be.” 

And that is how Felix learned of Jisung, another newborn vampire who was - in terms of vampire years - only a day older than he is. That he too, struggled for a long time under the care of Chan and Minho (and two others) due to a gruesome forced Change into a vampire. Two kindred spirits somehow found one another in the same situation. 

That in itself provided more solace than Chan could have ever known. 

Currently Jisung smiles across from him, laughing into his hand as the middle of the day pushes into the afternoon. There’s a knock at the door, Chan popping his head into the room with a growing smile and a quirked eyebrow. His dark hair is sticking up in all directions, some dark circles gracing his features, he’s wearing a t-shirt and long plaid pajama pants. 

“What are you two doing up? It’s far too early, you need rest,” he says with a yawn. 

“I’m sorry, did we wake you?” asks Jisung, but Chan merely laughs and casts off the worry with a wave of his hand. 

“No, you’re fine, I’m a chronic insomniac - not necessarily needing sleep hasn’t helped either. I was up anyway, but I came to make sure that you fed again. Every 6 hours or so should be enough, smaller meals will help you adjust. It doesn’t sit quite as heavy.” 

“Haven’t we been drinking blood for the past few months?” asks Felix with a quirk of his brow.

Chan nods, but continues, “But you haven’t eaten anything in the last few months. It’s better to keep you fed. Are you not hungry?”

“Well I didn’t say that -” splutters Felix, knowing very well that the ache of hunger was one of the reasons he couldn’t sleep in the first place. 

Drinking blood is a strange experience. Every part of his body aches for it, but his head still seems to be on the fence - hesitating each time Felix moves to put the glass to his lips. His head threatens to make his stomach revolt, a swirling typhoon in his gut at the thought. Logically he’s known that he’s already had a fair share of blood, that he can stomach the rich substance. Hell - he did it earlier that day, feeding from Chan’s arm. 

It was compulsory in a way, instinctual in the moment in the garden, hardly aware of his own actions. Sipping from a cup of blood seems so human, so normal in a way. Jisung’s cup likewise has only a few sips taken out of it, his brows were drawn together as he frowned down at it. His hand shakes as he goes to take another sip and Felix can feel the weight of Chan’s gaze. When feverish or half-starved from the grave it was easy to grapple with the mental barrier, now, though with no perceived threat his hand is heavier than lead. Felix wants - nearly salivates at the thought, but his mind keeps his hand hesitating.

Jisung’s eyes meet his, a glance out of the corner of his eye through his peripherals before they both take slow sips. Judging from Chan’s expression, it’s a little more than painful to watch - Felix thinks he can see the other’s brow twitching as he has an odd not quite smile on his face.

Chan turns back into the kitchen grabbing a few different canisters, murmuring to himself about Minho and Hyunjin hiding everything of interest in the kitchen. The burner clicks on as Chan whisks a few different ingredients into a pot, warming it to completion. He gently eases the cups away from the other two, well aware of the hisses of protest - neither of which were voluntary even if they weren’t drinking - before mixing them with the contents of the pot in a few new cups he grabbed from the cupboard.

“Here. Drink,” says Chan gently, sitting across from them. 

“What is it?” asks Jisung, taking a small sip before breaking into a pleased smile. Felix takes a sip as well and for a moment, he thinks Chan might have taken ambrosia from some random deity. The drink has been warmed to perfection, rich and smooth with an undertone of something bitter - it no longer looks like blood necessarily and that helps him take another longer sip.

“Minho made it, originally, for Hyunjin when he was really having trouble feeding. He would’ve made it for you if he was up, but it’s too early for him to be conscious. It’s an adapted version of hot chocolate, essentially - human food has very little taste. Most meals taste like ash, honestly, but when combined with the blood it helps fool that persistent part of our minds not used to drinking blood.”

They sit for a little while longer, Felix’s eyes starting to slip closed with Jisung’s head bobbing. Chan laughs, coaxing them off to their rooms while taking their empty mugs, rinsing them to wash by hand later. Felix stumbles down the hallway, warm, content, and sleepy.

He’s asleep before he even registers his head hitting the pillow. 

* * *

Minho hates driving. 

Really, there’s no reason for it except to keep up pretenses of humanity and conserve his own energy. Running would be faster, but there have been enough grisly deaths recently in Seoul that Chan deemed it safer to drive home rather than risk Minho and Hyunjin being suspected as the murderers. Rogue vampires fit the bill and, regardless of how they live (relatively) by the Covenants, it would be all too easy to pin the deaths on the pair. 

Chan hasn’t disclosed the increase in deaths to the others, but Minho is more than aware of the increasing deaths all with wounds frighteningly similar to those of Jisung and Felix. Slashes against the chest, deep bites in their necks - sometimes slashes there as well - a sign of bloodlust, but underdeveloped fangs. The cuts are nowhere as precise and clean as fang marks made by a traditionally older vampire - gutting humans is something out of a horror movie. It’s wasteful and sloppy - easy to pin on a misguided young vampire. 

Hence why Chan was extra worried, arms tight around Minho when Hyunjin begged to come along. It would be easy to claim that Hyunjin, a relatively young vampire (technically a newborn still, by some measures) was lost without a Sire and lost his mind. Similarly a vampire such as Minho not groomed into the hierarchical society that Chan so hates would decide to defect, to risk the wellbeing of the community as a form of anarchy. 

Chan’s lips are cool on his forehead, but the sheer love bleeding through the simple gesture is enough for Minho to feel flames licking his innards. The older vampire’s hands are larger than his own as he cups both sides of Minho’s face, pressing their foreheads together for a moment longer. The lines around his eyes, a combination of stress lines and bags, almost give the illusion that Chan is as old as his true age - a soul deep weariness. 

“Please, please, be safe, Minho-yah, I don’t know if I could bear to lose you,” he whispers, lips ghosting at the shell of his ear. The hug tightens for a moment longer before Chan reluctantly pulls away, fingers still lingering in the air even as he steps back. 

“You won’t,” Minho promises. 

Being separated is an odd occurrence after cohabitating for centuries. They occasionally leave for months, sometimes years at a time, but it never gets easier. For the longest time, two hundred years, they only had each other - the fear of losing Chan is a persistent demon that lurks in Minho’s mind. As time has gone on, it’s expanded to not being able to prevent something from happening to Chan, to Changbin, to the young ones and it gnaws incessantly at Minho’s consciousness. 

Hyunjin has his feet kicked up on the dashboard even when Minho has told him off numerous times. His hat is low in front of his eyes as he sleeps softly, unused to being up so early. It’s four in the afternoon - dark enough to be out in the winter without risking burning Hyunjin’s sensitive skin (or Minho’s - but age helps), but far too early to be awake. 

Minho needs time to think and the drive back to Seoul takes time. 

If it weren’t for the urgency of the manager of the estate Minho would not have bothered to come back at all. Yet some bureaucracy must be met, evidently, to ensure that they can maintain their home. Even parts of the original hanok in the deeper interior of the home still stand - maintaining what they can despite needing to disguise their home from onlookers. They don’t live in a preserved area, so they do what they can. 

Chan would have come, but it is far too early for Jisung and Felix to be anywhere near the hustle and bustle of Seoul. The stimuli - constant sounds and light alone - would be enough to drive a fledgling mad not to mention the amount of people. The smells and proximity would (especially after two weeks maximum of being reborn) overpower any rational thought. No, it’s better that Chan and Changbin stay to try and manage the two younger ones. 

It doesn’t help that no one knows how Jisung was turned.

For the record - Minho isn’t worried at all. It’s slander on his poise to think otherwise. He has always gripped the steering wheel tight enough to hurt, always gnawed on his bottom lip because he _feels_ like it. 

The cusp of daylight has yet to kiss Seoul’s horizon when they arrive, still too many hours long for Minho’s preferences. Hyunjin is awake, hair fluffed up as he rubs at his eyes and smacks his lips a few times. He looks distinctly unimpressed, giving Minho a flat look for waking him, trying to remember what they’re doing in Seoul.

The younger of the two isn’t much for skinship, but he’s gotten used to sleeping with Changbin, waking up with his limbs entangled in the older’s. So while Minho watches TV, occasionally looking up from his phone to make a few remarks about the historical accuracy of the drama, Hyunjin remains cuddled next to him. It’s the middle of day for both of them, not tired in the slightest, but well aware of the warnings that Chan had given about hunting. Not that Hyunjin wanted to (or was allowed) to hunt in the first place. 

Minho’s phone buzzes, the older stating, “Chan is happy to hear we made it safely.”

“Did he doubt that we would?”

Minho hums noncommitedly and Hyunjin’s creeping sense of unease returns. It’s rare that Chan withholds information, but even so, the younger vampire thinks that perhaps Chan has been purposefully vague about the devastation in Seoul. 

The phone buzzes again, Minho swiping to look at it while Hyunjin stays fixated on the drama. It’s been hours now, but he doesn’t feel tired. 

“Hyunjin-ah?” asks Minho, “Would you do your hyung a favor and go to the corner store, please?” 

“Why, hyung, I’m comfortable,” whines Hyunjin, lips forming into a cute pout. He shoves his face into Minho’s shoulder, but the older is oddly subdued.

“Chan asked me to pick up a few things for the younger ones, I’d like honey chips, and I know you are still fond of some human foods. Besides we need food to look vaguely normal, what kind of human family can’t offer their estate manager a drink?”

Hyunjin rolls his eyes, “To do that, hyung, I’d have to pay a fortune. But I’ll go to the store for you, I was planning on taking a walk anyway.” 

He wasn’t planning on taking a walk, but the older man doesn’t need to know that. 

Hyunjin waves goodbye, grabbing his bucket hat and mask before going for a walk around the neighborhood while Minho prepares to meet with the contractors. He’ll be cranky later from lack of sleep later, Hyunjin is certain. The earliest the contractors - or investors or _whoever_ are trying to convince Minho and Chan to sell their home this time - are willing to meet is 8 in the morning. Which is late for vampires, even if the sun only rises at 7:30 on winter mornings. 

It’s easier that he’s out on a walk to make himself scarce. It’s better anyway - no one ever looked for him, having been in a blood den for four years, but one can’t be too certain. There are surely countless unconvicted users of the blood dens who remember Hyunjin - he was a favorite of the patrons, after all. And maybe, maybe, this is the reason that Hyunjin is more than a little afraid of meeting the newborns - a crawling unease whispering of old wounds. The excitement of having new covenmates has been tempered by the sinking worry that they’ll do something. The fear of being discarded for the precious newly Changed vampires coupled with the unease at what those newborns might do to him sits heavy in his gut. 

It’s almost daybreak, now, and the vampire finds himself more than a little lost. His cap is low over his eyes and he’s wearing a mask, so if he can’t manage to find his way back by daybreak he should be fine - even if Minho will tear him to shreds. His hand is cramping a little - stiff and tired (a sign that he should feed soon) but the bag weighs nothing in the face of vampire strength. But it’s been _hours_ of trudging from store to store. The list that Minho gave him is very particular, but Hyunjin is a completionist.

He’s gone to three different corner stores looking for Minho’s preferred brand of crisps. After all, they have to have a certain amount of flavor to even be remotely tolerable - human food tastes like ash. It leaves a grainy taste in Hyunjin’s mouth, coating everything with a fine layer of film and an aftertaste that lingers too long. How strange it seems that he’s gone from clinging to human food for some sense of normalcy to no longer wanting to eat much of it at all - none of his hyungs really eat much human food, regardless.

But they were more than willing to run to the store or open their wallets to help Hyunjin adjust. Even now there’s a ghost of a smile on his face as he looks at a bag of crisps, a tenderness in his eyes as he thinks about it. Jisung and Felix are fortunate to be with his hyungs from the start, even if it wasn’t the start they intended. 

* * *

“Well, you certainly aren’t our estate manager,” says Minho, levelling a steady gaze at Elder JYP. “Care to mention what you did with Jisoo? He was awfully competent and asked few questions.” 

“Jisoo is indisposed, I’m afraid,” says the older, lacing his fingers together. He’s seated at the desk in the office - Chan’s desk, where he had sat just a few weeks ago despairing over what will become of their coven. “So I’ve come in his stead.”

Minho raises an eyebrow, but refrains from saying anything. His hands have been tied for decades now. They were young and careless, once, and along the way the rumor of Chan’s human partner - who never aged, never looked a day over 23 even decades later - the rumor spread enough to pique JYP’s interest. Or perhaps the issue was Changbin. He had a rough transition period, too, after all. 

Seeing the caller ID announcing his unwanted guest had given him just enough time to convince Hyunjin to go to the corner store. If nothing more than his protection - he’s sure that JYP’s eyes are already aware of the younger’s existence. But if Minho has to fight here, he will. 

“I want you to take the blame for the attacks.” 

“I won’t do it,” replies Minho instantly. “You know it’s not Chan. They aren’t caused by any of us. How many attacks have there been, in the last three weeks alone? We haven’t been in Seoul for months.” 

“Not, _you_ , you, that funny little pet you’ve acquired recently. The Australian one. A lawless foreigner from a lawless land is a narrative the people, _my_ people will buy. It’s simple, you hand him over and we will put him out of his misery and the world, _your_ world, keeps on turning.” 

The selfish part of Minho would gladly hand over Felix if it meant that everything would stay intact. Two weeks isn’t long enough to know you love someone. But...it’s enough to know that you could love someone. To see how easily Felix slots himself into Hyunjin’s embrace, that he’s already joined at the hip with Jisung, that he draws out Changbin’s silly nature. That he dotes on Chan just as much as any of them do. The larger part of Minho, the fool that clung to Chan so long ago and waited for the embrace of a death that never stayed, knows that Felix belongs with them just as much, if not more than any of the others. 

“With all due respect, you aren’t in a position to be making such demands, Elder,” replies Minho. “I’m not technically a member of your clan nor larger Coven. I think I will pass. More importantly, when the attacks continue, the scrutiny will turn to you. Yongbok is too young to match up with the sequence of killings, the earlier, the current, and the later.”

“You should not make an enemy of me.”

The tone is biting cold, but Minho refuses to back down. He thinks he might think a pulse of fear in his long dead heart, the curl of the Elder’s thrall attempting to pin him down, but Minho refuses to be scared. Chan does his part, Minho will do what he can, too. 

“And you should regret not killing me when you had the chance,” replies Minho. 

* * *

It is one of the few secrets Minho has kept from Chan over the years. The older man has always counted their blessings that they have been together for so long and not run into any issues with the Council. Truly Minho has had very little interaction with the Council, using his own position as a sacrificial lamb (should the need arise) to keep Changbin and Hyunjin undiscovered. He has no idea how Elder JYP found out about Felix. Knows that he knows the other’s name, but uses the Korean name just to maintain a little privacy for the Australian boy. 

Minho loves to dance, loves music. His steps are precise, calculated as is his way of dealing with those who try to hurt their small family. He’s fortunate now that he is able to spend every day listening to sweet music and planning out his moves as he pleases. 

But it wasn’t always this way. And that was his first mistake. 

In one of his rare separations from Chan, Minho wanted so badly to go and listen to some music. Closing his eyes, leaning his head against a wall, he thinks he can see Chan’s fingers deftly strumming the strings with a small smile on his face. He has snuck into a seedier area on the edge of a populated town where he has been staying for a few weeks, just long enough to not draw attention to himself. The inn is modest, at best, but the ahjumma who runs it thinks that he looks like her grandson and he pays a discounted rate. Music fluttering in from the windowsill caresses his face, drawing him out of the shadows to admire the folk songs filtering through the air. It leaves him warm, longing for more.

He figures it was time that he fed anyway. 

The streets are lit with lanterns, the hum of the festival ringing out into the hills. Even the sparks from the flames seem to mingle with the stars, floating up to the sky until they are one and the same. Children push past him, giggling with their toys in the air. There is also the distinct twang of a gayegyum, pulling him forward even though he knows from the slender woman playing that it is not Chan. Minho ignores the pang in his chest, staying to the sidelines and watching the townsfolk laugh and celebrate. 

The dancing is intricate, fast-paced, and the human’s pulses are loud in Minho’s ears. He wishes he would have thought ahead, not so focused on the music and his own loneliness to realize how long he has staved off his hunger. The colored fabric of the finer hanboks for the lunar festival swish in concentric circles and radiant beauty. Fans snap every which way and Minho continues to linger, stepping forward with every pulse of the drum. 

It becomes almost an obsession, finding different festivals with music, laughter, and dance. For a while, he even travels with a troupe picking up a few different local dances as they traverse the country. Occasionally he would visit with the shamans practicing their craft and reading the signs of fate, healing the masses. Minho’s heart hurts, head pulses to the beat of the drum - feels woozy with the hum of the daegeum and the danso. He does not speak of the tears that prick at his eyes at the familiar chords of the instruments such as the varied zithers with their shining silk strings draw his eyes the most. He steadfastly does not think of Chan.

Rather he thinks that an eternity alone is starting to feel impossibly long. 

His own loneliness is his own undoing. In following the troupes, frequenting festivals and talking to others he becomes fairly well known. He does not kill humans, takes only what he needs and leaves them in a thrall to not remember what he did. Rather his own friendly presence and blooming dance were enough to be introduced to the master of a reputable estate. 

No one really knows his name, in that area, only refer to him as Elder or JYP. 

One of his close friends leads him delicately by the arm, up the stairs to the platform where the lords sit to enjoy the reverie of the festival. All it took was for a mutual bow to be exchanged for Minho to realize how much trouble he managed to get into. For vampires, nothing is easier to spot than their own kind. They tend to stick out in a crowd. After all, when listening for the pulse of the ideal prey, it is all too easy to notice another person lacking one. 

JYP beckons him deeper inside the building and, as JYP is firmly part of the elites in society, Minho is left with no choice but to follow the yangban. He kneels in front of the man, bowing deeply before raising slowly, keeping his eyes locked on the floor. 

“What Coven do you belong to, little lamb?” asks the man seated across from him. They are on almost level ground as the socialite sits on only a few cushions, but he seems impossibly big. His demeanor looks down at Minho, imposing - the wolf ready to consume the lamb for dinner. 

“Tell me, then, who is your Sire?”

 _Chan_ , thinks Minho for a moment. He hasn’t seen Chan in years, at this point, and Minho has not received a letter from him in quite some time. The pair are too nomadic to accurately receive messages regardless. 

“I don’t have one, Sir,” replies Minho, “I was left for dead before leaving the soil.” 

“Then you have no Coven ties?” he asks, steepling his fingers under his chin. 

“No, Sir, I am alone. And that is how I prefer it.” 

He recites the phrases that Chan taught him so many moons ago, drilling him again and again until Minho does not even need to think to recite it to perfection. It does not, however, make the lie taste any better in his mouth. 

Nor did the lie help to get Elder JYP off of their trail. He, begrudgingly, let Minho go on the basis that he would be keeping tabs on him. And keep tabs he did. 

No later than the day that Chan was back in arm’s reach, Minho received a message from the Elder. Minho was well aware of the eyes that watched him from the shadows, weighted gazes tracking his every action. But, laying on the bed in Chan’s embrace, feeling Chan’s chest against his own back, the tickle of Chan’s hair brushing the nape of his neck - he can’t bring himself to care. 

Even now, in the present day, a heavy hand on his shoulder as he is shoved into a car, Minho cannot bring himself to care. The larger part of him still squirms in self-satisfaction, knowing that no matter how his life ends that it was worth it. Once upon a time, he wasn’t going to allow himself to dream of such happiness, so he’ll be damned if he lets anyone else take that from his loved ones.

* * *

The front door to their home is small, inconspicuous and a little worn down. Worn down it may be, it is a heavy thing that takes a fair amount of human exertion to open properly - its hinges are a little crooked and materials impossibly dense. Not to mention instead of the door handle, Chan recently acquired a keypad so it will pop open automatically and provide extra security than the traditional locks. The door groans in protest as Hyunjin braces himself against it, running a hand through his hair after his passcode is rejected for a second time. The streets are busy, humans passing by without sparing a glance for Hyunjin. 

Moisture beads at his eyes. _It’s just exhaustion,_ he reasons, _You’re tired and Minho will come soon. You haven’t been cast out._ It is a soothing thought, but regardless it is clear that something is wrong. 

Chewing his lip and securing his hair back with a spare elastic, Hyunjin bends down, nudging the groceries out of the way. The sun has risen high in the sky at this time, having come home far too late in the day for his own preferences. Chan will likely scold him for the redness on his skin from the midday sun. Hyunjin is slow, sluggish as weariness pulls at him, but Minho-hyung still must be with Jisoo, the estate manager because he hasn’t answered his phone. And that only wears on his mind more. Closer inspection shows the keypad’s wires are cut and frayed, looking ancient although they were installed the year prior. 

Fear is a powerful motivator. Another hard shove and the door finally gives. A blur darts out of the apartment, sending Hyunjin spiraling on his back as he loses his balance. 

Dori yowls at Hyunjin’s arrival, screaming in his ear from her position on his chest. She nips and paws at the vampire as he sits up, registering the frustrated feline. Her claws urging him to move faster is the nail in the coffin that something has gone very, very wrong. Cradling the cat in his arms, groceries abandoned in the entryway - their home has been utterly destroyed and Minho is nowhere in sight. Hyunjin crosses the threshold into their living room when Dori hisses and leaps from his arms, darting down the hallway. 

“Hyung? Minho-hyung?” calls Hyunjin, turning down the hallway toward their bedrooms.

The doors are all left open, Chan’s study is all but torn apart - papers strewn everywhere, drawers left open and the curtains torn. The portraits of the four of his family together, no older than four years, have been slashed through. It’s chilling how the assailant completely carved away his, Changbin, and Minho’s faces, leaving a few slashes through Chan’s - but otherwise intact. Dori continues crying, under the study’s couch with eyes wide - body so tense she almost looks like a statue.

Pulling out his phone absentmindedly, Hyunjin presses the device to his ears, frowning as he ears pick up a hum in the other room. Minho’s phone vibrating in his bedroom, left on the bed where he had dropped it this morning after driving into the city. 

Hyunjin frowns, turning away from the otherwise messy room. It’s strange how none of the valuables were taken - weird too that Minho had left his phone on the bed when he needed to know when Jisoo would arrive. The vampire stops in the hallway, nails digging into the wood frame of Changbin’s doorway. _Odd, wasn’t it, that Minho had his phone when asking Hyunjin to go run to the store? Why was it back in his room now?_

Calling Chan would only make the situation worse, stressing the other out when they have the fledglings to think about. But Chan needs to know. 

“You’re not being a burden,” Hyunjin whispers to himself, sliding down to sit on the floor, “Chan-hyung needs to know. This is important.”

* * *

One of the first things that Felix learns about Chan is that he is a fantastically terrible liar. It shows in his hands not knowing quite where to land, the lines by his eyes, and his nervous laughter all betray his attempt to downplay his worry. Chan held his phone so hard it bent in half and pulled a door off his hinges when he was about to run to Seoul himself after Hyunjin’s phone call.

Chan stops, turns, looking at Felix and Jisung before trying to shove the door back on its hinges. It hangs crooked, more shoved into the doorway than actually functioning. Instead he listlessly walks to the kitchen, pulling out a few blood bags and warming them, pushing them toward the two newborns watching him like a hawk. One explodes partially from how hard he’s squeezing it and it isn’t until Changbin pries the older away, shooing him away to the study that Felix realizes the weight in his own chest is fear. 

Truthfully, Felix does not know much of what is going on, merely shoving his ear to the wall and thanking himself for having such advanced hearing. The intel he gathers from eavesdropping and sneaking a glance at Chan’s hastily scribbled notes from his phone conversation do not add up to much. It just explains the tension in his Sire’s smile. 

Minho is missing. 

Chan, after hearing from Hyunjin, called Jeonghan - a witch? - that he hasn’t heard from Jisoo since he left this morning to meet with Minho. Chan had commented offhandedly to Changbin how weird it was that the estate manager was now, of all times, adhering to societal convention by asking Minho to meet in the early morning. Now Chan’s response is devastatingly self-deprecating and negative, muttering to Changbin how he should have known - and _why didn’t I know?_

In the doorway, seeing Changbin sit beside Chan, talking to him in impossibly low tones feels like the greatest amount of distance Felix has felt between the others and himself. The few meters stretches for an endless eternity - the newborn wonders if the myth of needing to be invited inside is actually real. Changbin grips Chan’s hands tightly with his own, touching their foreheads together and whisking away the bloody tears leaking from the older man’s eyes. As Changbin stands to leave, he tugs on Felix’s arm to follow, but the younger waves him off while creeping into the main room. 

Felix sits down next to Chan, hands folded in his own lap. It almost feels more awkward than a first date - feeling the Sire bond in the back of his mind buzzing with remnants of Chan’s emotions - has the younger biting his lip in lieu of starting a sentence. There’s no reason to speak when they know exactly what the other is feeling. 

“I’m sorry,” says Felix quietly, extending a hand off to his right to gently take Chan’s hands in his own. The older vampire’s fingerprints are a little bloodstained from rubbing away his tears and freezing cold, but the weight is a reassuring presence in Felix’s hands. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” replies Chan with a watery smile. 

“Neither do you,” insists Felix, “It’s not your fault. No one could have anticipated anything like this happening. What can I do to help you?”

“That was a _private_ conversation, Felix. I know you can’t always help eavesdropping, but I don’t want you to worry. It’ll only be a few days, I will return to Seoul and then come back. I don’t want you or Jisung there just yet, it’ll be too overwhelming, Felix. Your new senses are already overwhelming and being in such close proximity to that many humans...I’m sorry Felix, I appreciate it, but I can handle this on my own. Changbin will stay to help the two of you. Don’t worry about me.”

“But, Hyung, you shouldn’t have to do these things alone.”

Chan sighs, fingers tightening for a moment around Felix’s before letting his hands fall limp. The silence is deafening, a few times Chan opens his mouth as if to speak but little comes of it. Even sitting next to one another, the distance feels insurmountable. Chan’s hair falls in front of his eyes as he looks to the left, none too subtly avoiding the younger vampire’s intense gaze. The older vampire stands for a moment, giving a reassuring squeeze to Felix’s shoulder before moving to leave the room.

* * *

It’s not that Jeongin doesn’t have friends, really, it’s just that everyone wrote him off back in primary school and distanced themselves from him. But really after seeing an odd procession of people in traditional clothes disappear into the sunset, veils fluttering in the wind at the age of nine on a family trip to Seoul, how else was he supposed to react? 

Seoul is impossibly big and teeming with endless mysteries, just like the random pedestrian procession in the middle of the street. Jeongin lets go of his mother’s hand for only a moment to watch the group head off in the distance toward the sunset. The boy takes a few steps away from his mother as she frowns at her phone, trying to figure out where to meet her partner. One of the members of the procession stops momentarily, looking vacantly off in the distance in Jeongin’s general direction - it is hard to determine at first with the veil on. Yet a powerful gust of wind determines Jeongin’s fate as it disturbs the veil resting on the young man’s face, exposing his face to the golden hour of sunset. The young man grimaces, pulling hard on the hat to keep it secured to his head and Jeongin swears - knows he isn’t crazy, knows that everyone thinks he _is_ \- that he saw a flash of fangs. 

The return of his mother turns him in the direction of the procession, walking down the street to a restaurant for dinner with associates. The procession has all but disappeared, no one else in his family having seen the entourage making their way on the busiest street in Seoul by foot. He trudges behind his parents, craning his neck up at the sky toward the buildings scraping the sky. Squinting, Jeongin thinks that he can see fabric fluttering on the roof of a nearby building - but his mother just scoffs, saying that his imagination is running away from him again. She steers him into the restaurant and plops him down in a central spot at the round table.

Dinner is boring as his family meets with business partners, those pinching his cheeks and overall ignoring his presence. The portions of the fusion restaurant are small, bursting with luxurious flavor not suited to his child’s palette, so he mostly pokes at the dishes and says nothing. Not even food is enough to keep Jeongin’s thoughts away from the nearby building. Another ten minutes pass with no end in sight for business negotiations, knowing if a deal has not been met at this point nothing productive will come for an hour at least.

He has always been quick and mischievous, only growing worse with age. If he survives to be grounded, he might never be allowed out of his mother’s sight again. He feigns slight stomach pain, hobbling off to the bathroom only to slip out the back door. Jeongin knows he is taking a bold risk based on nothing but his own suspicion, but he is nine and _confident_. 

And, as it turns out, he is right. 

Pushing his face and rounded cheeks against the glass, perched precariously on a trash bin Jeongin can see the absolute debauchery within. Countless individuals, blood dripping down their necks, clothes coming off just as fast. The boy startles, slapping a hand over his eyes before catching sight of anything worse, tipping off the trash bin onto the hard pavement. He winces, rubbing his aching shoulder before peering hesitantly through the window once more. Although he knows that he is being the most sly creature there is, there should be no reason for the onlookers to miss the boy gaping in the window. 

Fortune is with Jeongin as the inner door of the room bursts open, numerous hanbok clad vampires - the ones from the street, he breathes - file in. They separate the pairs, throwing blankets over the bloody humans. The entourage that Jeongin from the streets earlier that day have a swift method in their dispatched assassination team, sorting humans from vampires. Room by room the den falls, countless rouge, predatory vampires rounded up. As for the humans, Jeongin could not tell why they were under blankets. The spray of blood against the window - human or vampire - from one of the assassins kept his vantage point limited. 

Jeongin steps away from the window, sitting back against the wall for a moment. It wasn’t anything like the shows he likes to watch. It was _scary_. And he can’t help but wonder if the vampires knew that he was there. He hurries back into the restaurant, pushing into the bathroom and washing his hands. 

Dutifully pulling out his chair at the table and his father does not blink at an eye at him, deep in discussions. Jeongin’s mother frowns, muttering to herself while wiping at a smear of dirt on his cheek that the boy missed in the bathroom. No one has noticed that he was gone or questioned his absence. With a smug grin, he sinks low in his chair with his arms crossed against his chest. He glances up at his father’s business associate who, up until this point, he paid little mind. 

The man grins, more of a crooked smirk than any expression one would wear naturally. The man’s body is angled just so, away from Jeongin’s mother and father at the circular table. So only the nine year old is witness to the pearly white fang that sticks out as the man grins. 

Likewise, Jeongin is the only one to feel the cold bead of sweat slither down his back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, commenting, and leaving me kudos on this pet project! It is such a fun source of stress relief during the semester. This chapter is a little shorter but I hope it is still enjoyable. 
> 
> Do not worry - Seungmin will come in the next chapter!
> 
> Fun Fact(s): (1) All vampires have red eyes, the more they feed the more they look like their original color - but it can never fully revert. Every member of stray kids has a different shade of red that I chose to (try) and highlight their personality. (2) Hyunjin, although he doesn't mention it, is the only one to never (and likely will never) feed from a human. Chan, Minho, and Changbin have all done it. Some more than others.

**Author's Note:**

> angst first chapter, I know - I swear the rest will be better (but also keep in mind updates will be somewhat sporadic). I have officially started the vampire fic of my dreams while in grad school
> 
> notes: their relationship is both platonic and romantic and can be interpreted either way, I like both. Minho and Chan (although I won't go into detail) are married for tax reasons, to ensure that if something happened to Chan, Minho would have access to funds/estate/etc... it was 100% marriage of convenience to lovers.
> 
> the others will make appearances in the coming chapters, I hope the world building made sense! I had a lot of fun with it! Please let me know what you thought!


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